


When We Turned to Grey

by elevenhurricanes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Character Death, Dementia, Edinburgh, Established Relationship, Flowers, M/M, Old Age, Retirement, Retirementlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 04:31:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3596433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elevenhurricanes/pseuds/elevenhurricanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last four years of the two, or: a study in synapses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Turned to Grey

**Author's Note:**

> A great amount of research was put into this story, thanks to many online medical journals and having a friend who worked with dementia patients. Like with any work of fiction, there will be inaccuracies, but know that I researched to the best of my capabilities.  
> Beta'd by the fabulous [jokermoreau](http://jokermoreau.tumblr.com), who had the pleasure of listening to me grumble about this story for the past two years. Any leftover mistakes are my own.

_When you are old and gray and full of sleep_

_And nodding by the fire, take down this book,_

_And slowly read, and dream of the soft look_

_Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;  
_

 

_How many loved your moments of glad grace,_

_And loved your beauty with love false or true;_

_But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,_

_And loved the sorrows of your changing face.  
_

 

_And bending down beside the glowing bars,_

_Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled_

_And paced upon the mountains overhead,_

_And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.  
_

                    - W.B. Yeats, “When You Are Old”

\-----

There’s an apple tree that grows near the back fence. It’s rather old. Sherlock assumes that the tree has been there longer than the fence has, which is overgrown with rust-colored vines and full of pits where insects burrow into the wood. The tree isn’t the best at its job, most likely due to not being properly pruned for many years before they obtained the property. Yet every year like clockwork, John meticulously picks every ripe apple off that he can reach, hauls them onto the back patio, and spends several evenings there in a patio chair, sectioning them off into separate bushels. The house reeks of the sickly-sweet scent of fresh apple pulp for weeks afterwards.

Underneath Sherlock’s hands, John’s shoulders rattle in their sockets with age as he shakes with the force of his cries. He sits hunkered on an overturned wooden basket. A warm breeze brushes past, bringing with it the salty, metallic scent of England's southern coast.

“But where are the apples?” John asks the fabric of Sherlock’s house robe. Sherlock’s arms wind around him and keep him there, safe from the view of the offending tree. It hadn’t taken long to deduce where John was, with the unseasonal warm temperatures and the basket gone from its place next to the patio doors. To John it was mid-September, which meant spending a day out to harvest.

Sherlock doesn’t have the heart to tell him that it’s March. John wouldn’t believe him anyway.

\-----

  
The memory loss is a slow-brewing storm.

“John.”

“Mm?” There is a hideous scrape as John slides his fork across the plate to pile the last of the beans onto his toast.

“The paper.” It takes several seconds for John to glance around the kitchen and discover what Sherlock already knows. John makes a racket as he scoots his chair back, ties off his robe, and shuffles to the front door. Another minute and John is back, grumbling to himself about growing old and other inane complaints that Sherlock doesn’t bother listening to. Taking up an entire column on the first page is an article on what appears to be the only interesting case coming out of London in months. He relays the information to John, excited at the prospect of a one-armed serial killer, and pulls out his mobile to book a pair of tickets for the next day’s train.

The morning they plan to leave, John pops down to the village for toothpaste and doesn’t return. Sherlock finds him an hour later, standing in the greeting card aisle of the store and eyeing a get-well-soon card with a ridiculous ostrich on the front. He walks over to John and they argue for a minute about buying Molly an anniversary card before John turns to face him proper.

“I’ve forgotten something again, haven’t I?” Sherlock drops a kiss to John’s temple, where black glasses nestle into grey hair.

John goes to purchase the toothpaste and anniversary card; Sherlock pulls out his mobile to decline Detective Inspector Pritchard’s offer to have a look around the crime scene. Text sent, he purchases connecting tickets for Waverley Station.

 

Edinburgh greets them with heavy rain and wind, precisely how Sherlock imagined it would when he glanced at the forecast on the train. Both of them clamber into a cab and pass through the city, and already Sherlock tires of the heavy architecture.

It smells a bit like London here. Wet pavement and the clogging scent of rusted pipes, old brick, and weathered wood. The sea to the east keeps the fog rolling in off the coast and hovering around the castle on the hill. Although it’s late afternoon, the city appears to be sleeping. Locals are tucked into their houses and the restaurants and pubs are full of patrons that’ve been there for hours and are content to stay another, seated where they are. John watches the scenery go by with genuine interest, burrowing further into his scarf as the rain picks up against the glass.

The cab pulls up to the curb of the university’s main square and Sherlock pays the driver while John wrestles the bags out of the boot.

“My colleague should be meeting us shortly, just in the entrance hall,” Sherlock says as he grabs hold of his luggage and strolls into the nearest building. John follows, grumbling about his glasses that now sport several raindrops.

“Since when are you referring to people as colleagues?” A door creaks open to their right and the pair watch as students pour out of a lecture hall, mobiles shining on their faces and umbrellas gripped tightly. Sherlock makes a face at John’s question. Heels clicking across the marble floor draws their attention to a middle-aged woman with a badge clipped to her blazer.

“This is Doctor Joyce McDowell,” Sherlock says as she steps up into the lobby to greet them, “She oversees the dementia research center here. I helped her husband solve a major art theft at the National Gallery a few years ago, while you were out gallivanting with Lestrade. The case with the fake Monet and the dead tortoise that you wouldn’t make space in your suitcase for.”

“I was helping Lestrade home from the hospital after he broke his hip, not rushing about museums.”

“You must be John,” Joyce says in a high Scottish accent as she shakes his hand, “Sherlock honestly never shut up about you when he was here last.”

“Trust me, he’s not surprised,” Sherlock interrupts.

“Not in the least, no,” John says. Joyce smiles good-naturedly and motions for them to follow.

 

Joyce tells them the following morning when they return to the university. The scans in her hand quaver as she holds them up, John’s brain lighting up in brilliant colors. Over the years he’s seen multiple scans of John’s brain from various hospital visits, courtesy of the work. To Sherlock, the scans are pieces of art. He’d certainly hang them up on the wall in the sitting room if John would let him. He’s asked, of course.

“You’re experiencing what’s referred to as a mild decline in cognitive function,” Joyce’s gaze flickers between John and Sherlock, “Typically, this leads to further complications.”

“You mean Alzheimer’s,” Sherlock supplies.

“Yes,” Joyce says and John tenses beside him, the hand resting on his thigh twitching and curling.

Joyce taps near the frontal cortex at a burst of red there and lectures to them about keeping a journal, gardening, and anything else that could keep John’s mind active. She scribbles down a referral for a dementia specialist in London, which Sherlock immediately reaches for, an eyebrow raised.  

“He’s the best in his field,” Joyce says. Sherlock nods and hands the paper over to John, who barely inspects it before sliding it in amongst the other papers.

 

They stay another night in Edinburgh and spend hours lying in bed awake to the sounds of a pub down the street. Sherlock uses this time to scan page after page of famous local murders, after which he announces his wish to see a journal made of a murderer’s skin before they leave the next day.

“If we have time.”

“Our train doesn’t leave until noon and it’s just down the road–”

“All right, but you’re not sneaking it into our luggage.” The pub patrons groan over a missed goal and glass shatters against the pavement. John rolls over and ends up pressed against Sherlock’s side, nose digging into the curve of his shoulder.

“If I become too much of a bother–”

“You’re always a bother,” Sherlock interrupts and can feel the rush of warm air against the skin of his arm as John releases a quiet laugh.

\-----

 

Mycroft has the gall to send a nursing home brochure for those living with dementia. Sherlock carries it inside with the bills and the belated Christmas card from Lestrade and promptly drops it into the fireplace. He watches the edges of the paper melt and curl under the orange flames until it’s nothing but ash.

\-----

 

John’s skin now holds eight new age spots.

Sherlock informs him of this as they rotate around the bathroom on a morning in early February. A thick layer of frost coats the window, the sunlight casting spotty shadows across the white tiles. On schedule, John reminds him in his gravelly morning voice that Sherlock isn’t looking so hot these days, either.

The body in the mirror is traitorous to its host. His muscles have gone lax, his bones have grown weary, and his hair fluffy and woven with coarse, grey strands. Climbing the stairs is now a hardship, which also means the satellite dish covered in petroleum jelly is never coming down off the roof, John’s complaints about his never-ending experiments be damned.

John steps out of the shower and Sherlock wordlessly hands over his glasses. The crow’s feet around John’s eyes crinkle up when he feels the tickle of Sherlock’s hair at his neck. The rest of Sherlock’s head comes down upon his shoulder.

After being together for nearly half a century, they are well-practiced in the art of coexistence; Sherlock sometimes imagines the both of them as dusty old planets that rotate around and around each other. John has the last novel to draft and argue over email about with his editor. Sherlock has the bees and, much to Sherlock’s own displeasure, John has the pleasure of calling the bees Sherlock’s children.

“You wanted to stay up late to see Jupiter,” John says, running fingers through the damp curls.

“The planet is at its brightest this month,” Sherlock defends. They lean against each other for a moment, until John’s wrist starts throbbing from the awkward position and he shoves Sherlock away with a kiss to his forehead.

 

Shoeboxes and stacks of photographs litter the kitchen table. Various clippings from the Telegraph are intermingled with the photographs, detailing cases long solved and kisses in dark alleys. Sherlock runs the pads of his fingers over the knots and bark inclusions of the table, recalling the feel of grimy brick and the smell of a rain-logged London. Someone – most likely John – attempted to gain an upper-hand in organization and scribbled dates onto the tops of the shoeboxes. Someone – most likely Sherlock – went through all of them at some point and completely destroyed any semblance of order. Photographs from post-return cases and Molly’s wedding stack amongst some of John’s childhood and Sherlock’s copies of his grandfather’s Christmas party.

John looks up from the morning paper and his eyebrows furrow at the stacks of photographs.

“What are you up to?”

“I’m organizing,” Sherlock says. John doesn’t bother holding back a snort.

“Pretty sure I spent a weekend doing just that when you were off on a case in Brussels. Nice to see it paid off.”

He imagines John’s mind as a box. Inside the box, all nestled together, are his memories. They are strung together by twine according to general dates and events. Blue twine for Afghanistan, red twine for their time in London, green twine for childhood, and gold twine for their time in Sussex. Along the way, though, pieces of the colored twine unraveled to scraggly bits and now those memories are scattered to corners of the box. Sometimes John finds them and slides them back into place, like with the Brussels case, and sometimes the memories disappear for weeks at a time. Eventually, as the disease grows, there will be a time when the memories will be harder and harder for John to access.

Sherlock is about to stuff the remaining photos into a box when, on a whim, he pulls out a favorite and flashes it in front of John’s face. There’s a tingling sensation at the top of his spine when John studies the photo and laughs.

 

“Let’s go to bed.” Sherlock looks up from an article on beehive designs to see John standing in the doorway to the sitting room. The world behind John’s shoulder is dark through the kitchen’s patio doors. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours, love.”

“I’ll be up in a bit. I’ve only a few more articles to finish after this.” Despite being on the other side of the room, Sherlock can tell that John knows about the considerable amount of tabs that are open in the browser. Under the weight of John’s unrelenting gaze, Sherlock closes the laptop and follows him upstairs.

They turn off the lights and curl around each other, seeking warmth underneath the chilled bed sheets that warm quickly with their shared body heat. John presses a closed-mouth kiss to the fabric covering Sherlock’s collarbone. Sherlock slides a cold hand underneath John’s nightshirt, feeling the wiry chest hairs slide through the spaces between his fingers. John lets out a gasp that catches in his throat when Sherlock moves his hand down to the plump skin of his belly, curling long fingers around his hip.

“You’re jumpy,” comes the complaint against his temple.

“You have ice lollies for hands.”

They are quiet for a time. The ceiling fan above their heads needs tightening; it wobbles slightly with the force of the blades. A crisp woodsy scent combined with the slept-in cotton of their pillowcases clings to the air. Sherlock runs his fingers up the knobs of John’s spine, feels the bone underneath his calluses.

“You are,” Sherlock breathes out as he kisses the wrinkled skin of John’s neck, “a thousand compositions at once.” John rolls and squirms closer, slipping an arm around Sherlock’s waist as he goes. 

“I bet you say that to all of your husbands.”

\-----

 

They’re arguing over birdseed in Tesco. Or, rather, Sherlock is in the gardening section arguing with an employee that can’t tell his arse from his elbow and John is putting a hand over his face in an attempt to block his view of the other shoppers eyeing them at a safe distance. He doesn’t have the patience to deal with Sherlock’s outbursts, not when his bladder is forcing him to map the quickest way to the toilet.

“Which type of seed would you recommend for a stripe-breasted Rhabdornis?” John doesn’t even have to be looking at Sherlock to know that whatever mouth full of a bird he named off is a test.

“Um, this.” The kid points to a small bag of generic birdseed.

“You are aware that the bird is an endemic species to the Philippines.” The kid shakes his head. “I thought not. You’re dismissed, go text your cheating girlfriend.” The kid’s eyes widen, but he’s not completely stupid and scurries away quickly. John glares at his husband, who is wrestling with a bag and grumbling about idiots.

“Sherlock, he’s not even in uni. How is he supposed to know what a striped-belly rhododendron is?”

“Stripe-breasted –”

“Yeah, I know I said it wrong, you git.”

“I knew he wouldn’t know what it was. I wanted him to go away.”

“And insulting him in front of customers was the best route to go.” Sherlock drops a bag into the cart with a flair of victory and nods.

“Students who need money are flocking to jobs they don’t have to care about to attain. Hence, that ignorant teenager who would’ve kept bothering us if I hadn’t stepped in.” Sherlock finishes his tirade and John wants to smack a palm upside his head – plans to do so, really – before he feels a sudden wetness between his legs. He looks down to see a dark spot forming at the crotch of his trousers that grows as the seconds pass and only then he remembers his need for the toilet. Sherlock’s gaze flickers between his face and the stain, eyebrows knotted with concern, “Are you –”

“It’s fine,” John bites out and tugs his coat down in an attempt to cover up the spot, “Get the rest of the groceries and for god’s sake don’t yell at anyone else. I’ll – the car. I’ll just wait in the car.” Without another word, John snatches the keys out of Sherlock’s pocket and walks stiffly down the aisle, disappearing around the corner. 

\-----

 

“I could invent a cure.”

 “Smarter men than you have been trying for decades.”

“Yes, but–”

“Go to sleep.”

\-----

 

Spring arrives with birds crowding the feeders near the back fence and John spending the afternoons watching them from the patio, an array of cover designs for his last book spread out and tacked to the table with pebbles from the garden pathway. His eyes track the robins that dart from the tree line, the feeder, and back. The crow that likes to come poking around becomes Janus, further proof that John is visiting his old blog, rereading the adventures that slip away from him so easily now.

The garden is full of early flowers lining the path that meanders through the yard and ends at the hives. Clusters of pink dianthus, multicolored petunia, and lavender grow closer to the house, with larkspur, columbine, and bursts of bluebell crowding near the end of the path; underneath the shade of a dogwood grows coralbell and a particularly enormous hydrangea bush.

Perhaps it is the thrill of regaining time with the bees that gives Sherlock the extra push to purchase a guide to regional birds at the local book shop. The book earns a home on top of John’s newspaper the next morning, as if that is always its place. John runs a hand over the cover and looks up to catch Sherlock’s gaze across the kitchen.

“You look,” John pauses and his eyes narrow as he searches for the word, “happy.”

“I am.”

“You’ve not been happy, recently.”

“The children have been squabbling, you know how they get.”

“Must take after their da.” Sherlock has enough energy to look affronted by the notion. John grins into his tea. “Thank you.”

“Hmm.”

“It’ll be nice to put a name to a face,” John says, “We should –”

“Hmm?” Egg bits are falling out of the skillet and onto the stove. Sherlock glances to where John is opening the paper and frowning. Sherlock shoves the egg bits into the crevice between the stove and the countertop.

John’s mouth drops open, closes, opens halfway, closes; he gives a half-hearted chuckle, “I had a thought and now it’s gone.”

“That keeps happening to you. It’s rather annoying.” He looks up from the botched breakfast to find a smile on John’s face, and wonders when John’s brain destroying itself will stop being a shared joke.

\-----

 

The kitchen is quiet, the fridge having clicked off and the pipes still. Sherlock shifts from foot to foot. Cloud cover is preventing him from seeing any details in the yard, just the illusion of dark objects outlined by the distant line of trees. Upstairs, the bed stops creaking in protest to John’s rotating body. Sherlock waits for half an hour before joining him.

He read about sleep-learning for a case involving a woman who tried the technique on her wife every night, repeating to the wife to kill her ex-husband for a long-forgotten life insurance policy. The wife did eventually kill the ex-husband, although Sherlock cited the murder to pent-up rage combined with substance abuse, not the effects of psychological conditioning.

John is not yet in his deepest sleep, so instead of joining him on the bed and taking the risk of jostling him awake, Sherlock kneels down on the floor beside him.

“You can’t forget Sherlock.” His knees are protesting against the rigid surface of the floor and his throat seems to be full of something. “You have to remember Sherlock. Don’t forget about Sherlock. You have to remember Sherlock.”

In the morning when John wakes up, Sherlock is awake and stretched out next to him on the bed. John grunts a good morning and goes off to start the routine. Sherlock opens his mouth to reply and realizes that he’s lost his voice.

\-----

 

His favorite place to be in early summer is near the bees. The sun is warm on his back and the lingering scent of pine from the smoker clings to his clothing. John joins him, occasionally, always donning the hat and veil beforehand so he can stick his face in places it doesn’t belong. Still, he does enjoy the quiet company, which is a far cry from when Molly or Lestrade decide to come visit and poke at the honey or yelp when bees approach. John knows this work, like any other, is important to him, so he’s content to stand beside him and only intervene when necessary.

A tube of sunblock floats in front of his face.

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock swats it away, eager instead to watch the bees retreat down into the cracks of the super. There’s a ragged sigh from behind his shoulder.

“You’ll burn the skin off your nose if you don’t put more on,” John says in that smug doctor tone of is that he’s managed to hold onto, despite not having practiced medicine in over a decade.

“It won’t matter in a few minutes anyway,” Sherlock says, motioning towards the east where dark clouds gather. On cue, the distant sound of thunder rumbles. A strong wind batters the birdfeeders and the deep, blue-grey of the clouds casts the trees at the edge of the property into shadow. After giving the bees a last glance, he shuts the hive lid and takes John’s outstretched arm. Together, they shuffle to the house to seek cover from the storm.

 

“Forecast says it’ll continue on through the night,” John announces as he joins Sherlock at the back door. The house feels smaller, the walls and furniture and clutter closing in around them, as though it’s shrinking to protect its inhabitants. Quick flashes of lightening appear a pale blue – similar, John thinks, to Sherlock’s eyes against the white of their bed sheets.

“Which means you’ll want to sleep with the windows open, then,” Sherlock says as he pulls away from the glass to face his husband. He places a hand upon John’s hip, running his thumb up and down, bunching the fabric of the pajama bottoms John wears. John reaches up and skates a thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone, the wrinkled skin soft and familiar.

Another streak of lightening blinks the world into existence. Sherlock sighs and John feels it, the warm, wet heat of air leaving Sherlock’s lungs, against the palm of his hand. John leans in for a kiss, then another, and he’s about to pull away to usher Sherlock to bed when he sees the look.

The look always stops John in his tracks, makes him rock back onto his heels and pause for a moment. When it happens, Sherlock’s entire demeanor seems to shift to reveal a face even John can deduce. Surprise is what John reads as he tracks Sherlock’s smile as it spreads, slightly lop-sided, across his face, creasing his features. Surprise, a dusting of humor, and what Sherlock once described to him – many, many years ago while lying in bed at Baker Street after a vigorous post-case romp – as dumping warm tea into the veins: love.

“Let’s go to bed.”

\-----

 

“There’s a black car in the drive,” John calls from the kitchen’s open window. Sherlock flings his bee-keeping journal to the table and prepares the nastiest look on his face. Before Mycroft can finish his stupid knock, Sherlock pulls the door out from under his fist and puts on his best glare.

It fails to impede the old heifer and Mycroft strolls in, bald as a baby and just as red-faced. John returns to the kitchen to make tea, keen to let the men play the silly game where they make faces at each other.

“I hope this isn’t an inconvenience.”

“Not at all. I was just telling John how our day was lacking in retired international criminals that aren’t so retired after all.” Mycroft raises an eyebrow at this, but chooses to ignore it.

“I’m here because of the latest test results from Doctor Billoan.”

“I wasn’t aware you were privy to John’s private test results.”

“A matter of unimportance,” Mycroft says, twirling the handle of his cane and eyeing the way his brother’s bare foot taps against the coffee table.

“Why are you here, Mycroft?”

“I ask that you end this childishness and place John into the capable hands of skilled professionals.” Sherlock is up and at the door, swinging it open with such force that it bounces off the wall. Several dishes in the kitchen rattle in protest.

“You may leave.”

“Do you think you’re doing him any good keeping him here where he can burn the house down when you’re out with the bees? Honestly –”

“Leave. I won’t ask again.” Mycroft looks up from his study of the worn rug and searches his brother’s face. Whatever he sees there leads him to lift himself out of the armchair and shuffle to the door. He taps his cane at the threshold.

“He’s not going to get any better living here.”

“Enlighten me on why you think it’s such a swell idea,” Sherlock says as he lowers his voice and closes in on his brother, “for me to abandon him to the care of strangers and when, on his bad days, he won’t understand where I went or why I’ve left him.” Mycroft meets his brother’s gaze and sighs.

“The days of him having such knowledge are going to be numbered, brother. You saw the doctor’s report,” Mycroft says, “I want you to be prepared for that.”

“Leave,” Sherlock repeats. Mycroft turns and lumbers down the front steps, feeling his brother’s eyes on him as the car pulls out of the drive and disappears over the hill.

\-----

 

They go to the sea. John says that the fresh air will do them some good. Sherlock knows that the nerve cells tangling together inside of John’s brain will not be eased by anything, especially ocean air currents, but walks down to the shore anyway.

The cloud cover that’s common with October and the sea melt together on the horizon. The entire scene would be a slab of grey if it weren’t for the dusting of deep, charcoal blue at the farthest point, a storm brewing over open water. John sits down on a rock, rolls up his trousers, and begins to work on unlacing his shoes. The urge to usher John away from the beach sits heavy in Sherlock’s throat; his tongue feels swollen from holding in his demand for John to stop, to not freeze to death.

Instead he joins John where the wet sand begins and they both watch the tide roll in, dance over their bare feet, and slip back into the ocean proper. Sherlock watches John’s toes wiggle in the coarse sand, his chapped lips moving about as he fights against a laugh at the tickle of the grains and the chill of the water, his eyes on the next wave coming towards them.

It is only natural, Sherlock thinks, to take hold of John’s hand and squeeze.

\-----

 

“My last book comes out tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“I asked the publishing assistant to send another copy, since you ruined the first with your corrosive acid experiment.”

“Mmm.”

“Oh, don’t play aloof with me. I know you’re itching at the chance to go through it and write in the margins about how wrong I am.”

“You pay that editor of yours an exorbitant fee to change your to you are and other basic grammar mistakes you still can’t seem to grasp. And yet, you have a live-in editor that would do all that and more. For free, I might add.”

“I pay her an _exorbitant fee_ because she does it without yelling at me in all uppercase letters–”

“It’s called caps lock. And I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

 

“You didn’t have to ask, you know. I always read your books eventually.”

\-----

 

Hidden in the quieter area of the hospital is a bench. It sits in front of a wide picture window, with a view of the inner courtyard and healing garden. Sherlock finds the bench on the day they find out John’s dementia has progressed into full-blown, bold-lettered Alzheimer’s. He brings John there during the next appointment and it becomes their spot, nestled down a long hallway in the dermatology wing. From their perch, they can pick out hospital staff and repairmen crossing the cobblestones with swift, measured steps, while patients and family members mill about at a leisurely pace.

Sherlock snags crisps from the vending machine near the lifts, John points at people down below, and Sherlock rattles off deductions from details he can’t possibly see. John calls bullshit on him and giggles.

It’s the best way to spend time while waiting for test results, he thinks.

\-----

 

“And this here,” Sherlock says, holding out a photo from long ago. The edges are curled and the entire photo has a line that runs through the middle of it, evidence of a crease from the interior of a wallet. John leans close and studies the image, grasps it and holds it up to his face.

“I’m not sure.”

“Look at the background. Does it look familiar?”

“Mmm… no. Nothing like England,” John says, looking up to catch Sherlock’s gaze, “which means somewhere else, perhaps foreign.”

“Narrow it down, then.” John’s chair creaks as he shifts his weight and curls closer to the table, tongue peeking out of his thin lips.

“Somewhere in America, with all of those mountains and the winding roads.” John sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. “North Carolina. That’s it, right?”

“Correct,” Sherlock assures, “we traveled there to solve a family disappearance.”

“The Caldwells,” John interrupts, speaking into his tea, “we chased a bloke through that old church and you deduced which pew he was hiding behind because of some rubbish about settling dust.”  
“I’ve been telling you for years that–”

“Dust is eloquent,” John finishes for him, “and the house is certainly a demonstration of that.” Sherlock starts to tuck the photograph into the growing pile but John’s hand on his wrist stops him. “Why am I thinking about honey now?”

“That weekend the town hosted a farmer’s market,” Sherlock says, a smug expression taking over his face, “we strolled through it in an effort to locate a suspect, but were unable to find him before he fled. While we were there, I purchased several jars of local honey and had to listen to you complain about how they all wouldn’t fit into our luggage. So we went out for dinner, got fantastically drunk off of bottles of local wine, and ended up using some honey for sexual aides that night.” John takes a long sip of his tea. The choppy memories of a bed and breakfast tucked between tall pine trees and the clogging, mildew scent of an old church float at the front of his mind.

“Didn’t you end up spilling honey onto the floor and try to mop it up with my pants?”

“ _Bottles_ of wine, John.”

\-----

 

John finds a nursing home brochure that must have missed the bin. Sherlock doesn’t see him find it, but it’s on the kitchen table in the morning. The grass on the lawn of the facility is bright green, unlike theirs which sports brown clumps and an entire hedge that needs trimming. The home is painted blue with white trim and the windows reflect the even bluer sky, which Sherlock doesn’t believe for a moment because where is it ever that clear in England?

Knowing John is watching him from behind the paper, Sherlock scoops the pamphlet up, rifles through the junk drawer, and lights the damn thing on fire with the first lighter he finds. He washes the ashes away down the drain. It is the last time either of them speak of any other living arrangements.

\-----

 

“He’s getting worse. He won’t admit it, though. That’s why I’m calling, because he’ll throw a tantrum at the appointment if I tell you what’s really happening.”  
“How so? With the memory lapses?”  
“With everything. A year ago he was eating regularly and taking care of the bills, and now he claims he isn’t hungry, or if he is he’s sneaking sweets and leaving the wrappers about like an idiot, and I’ve had to start paying the bills because he’s forgotten about the electricity to the point that it’s been shut off several times. And I’ve had to write in his daily journal because he claims he’s bored of it and occasionally I can get him to join me, but lately–”

“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but events like these are common with a patient at his stage.”

“So I’m supposed to accept that John will keel over from malnutrition because it’s a common occurrence?”

“We’ve got an appointment coming up in a week. We’ll discuss nutrition plans and transferring responsibilities over to you.”

“A week is plenty of time for him to decide he suddenly doesn’t want to eat anymore. Am I to force feed him with a tube down his throat?”

“The appointment, Sherlock. We’ll discuss it then.”

\-----

 

The faulty light bulb in the pantry had been on his to do list since October and as Christmas grew nearer and nearer, it gradually moved further and further down until he’d forgotten about it. Until now, stuck in the dark pantry.

He’s managed to barricade himself in somehow. In his disposal are a large can of tomatoes, a jar of honey, and a terrible sense of balance due to the osteoarthritis in his shoddy knees that came as a packaged deal with his last birthday.

“Bloody Christmas,” Sherlock swears and nudges at a bucket-shaped object with his slippered foot. In a death-defying act of simply abandoning the jar of honey and using his mobile’s flashlight, he manages to climb out of the death trap and back into the kitchen. The kitchen where John is supposed to be relaxing but is instead hissing threats into his mobile at someone.

“John, what on earth–”

John turns at the sound of his voice and pulls the mobile away from his ear, “Someone’s stolen Harry’s phone.”

“That’s–” John isn’t listening to him, though, because John is too busy reprimanding the voice on the other end of the line. “Hang up the phone.”

“No, she didn’t get a new number,” John says, pauses, and then adds, “And I call my sister to wish her a happy Christmas and you’re calling me that?”

“Hang up.” The frown on John’s face grows deeper.

“I’m not hanging up until I find out how this bloke got Harry’s phone.”

“It’s not her phone anymore,” Sherlock says as he takes the mobile out of John’s grip, “because Harry is dead,” and hates that he has to break the news to John again, especially like this.

Last time the hospital called early in the morning and Sherlock shook John awake and watched him break out of the warm cocoon of sleep. He watched John dress and they drove up the coast in the gloom of a grey countryside. He pressed a hand to the middle of John’s back as John pressed a kiss to his sister’s forehead. He helped him choose the lining of her casket in a cold little room at the back of a mortuary.

After the funeral was over and they returned home, he pulled out the scotch from the liquor cabinet and let John tell the same stories of Harry over and over again until the night ended with John curled into Sherlock’s side, asleep, and Sherlock carding his fingers through John’s grey hair.

This time, he watches John grab hold of the nearest chair and repeat Sherlock’s words back to himself.

“Right, yeah. Harry’s – she passed.”

 

Sometime after dinner, John remembers to ask for his mobile back. Sherlock watches from where he’s scooping honey into their tea and says nothing when John deletes the outgoing call and then the contact information. Sherlock transfers the cups to the table and leans to press a kiss to John’s shoulder. He feels the ragged breath that works its way in and out of John’s lungs.

\-----

 

_I’ve had to put away the good cutlery. He’s no longer allowed to make tea, after this morning when he nearly gave himself second-degree burns. The look on his face when I have to tell him that he can no longer do these things is disheartening. I know there’s good reason behind my words, however cruel they come across. I want him to remember why I’m doing these things, but if he could remember that, then there’d be no need._

\-----

 

“Do you think–”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think there are other Sherlock Holmeses?”

“If you’re assuming all of that crap on the telly about alternate universes is true, then I suppose so. By default, though, that would mean there are other John Watsons.”

“Do you think they all got the short end of the stick, too?”

“By meeting me?”

“No, you git, meeting you was the best possible thing that could’ve happened. I’ve told you that, haven’t I?”

“In your wedding vows, yes.”

“Good.”

\-----

 

Sherlock pulls his favorite cardigan from John’s side of the closet.

“Nippy out today, is it?” John asks from the bed where he’s bent over, struggling with a pair of socks. _It’s November_ , Sherlock thinks to himself, _of course it’s cold_.

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock murmurs. He slides the cardigan off its hanger and holds it open for John to slide his arms through, the left and then the right. John turns to face him and Sherlock makes slow work of the wooden buttons, his fingers protesting from the arthritis that riddles them. The cardigan is made of a dark blue wool that bears a striking resemblance to the shade of John’s eyes. Sherlock bought it for this reason years ago. “Ready?”

John gives him an earnest smile, the kind that reaches his eyes but not in the way it should; it reads to Sherlock as off-kilter.

“Ready.”

 

Bundled up in coats and scarves and beanies, the pair set off, arm-in-arm, through the gate that opens to the field on the other side of the fence. This area of the property, especially given the time of year, isn’t as well-maintained as the yard surrounding the house. Hip-high, wind-bent grass tickles at the tips of their fingers. Fat flakes of snow fall around them, clumping in piles on top of the bird feeders and fence posts.

“Any protests to turning this into a proper apiary?” Sherlock glances over to his companion.

“You already keep bees,” John says.

“That I do,” Sherlock motions to the hives at the other end of the yard that begin to disappear as they ascend the hill, “but I’m thinking at least a dozen, maybe more.”

“Would that mean more honey for toast and tea?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then you have my vote.” They reach the thicket of trees that signals the end of the property and trudge into the underbrush together. Above them, the branches creak and sway underneath the weight of the wind. The sound reminds Sherlock of bones snapping.

“I’m thinking of installing more hives as an anniversary present to myself,” Sherlock says, then continues, patting John’s gloved hand, “don’t worry, I’ll be getting you something, as well.” John’s brow wrinkles.

“When is our anniversary?”

“The ninth of April. It was a Wednesday at Baker Street,” Sherlock relates, “You came in with too many shopping bags on your arms. I declined to help, so you became flustered and stomped around the kitchen as a petty way of getting back at me. Realizing the error of my ways, and also needing access to my microscope which you were in the way of, I came into the kitchen and put away the rest of the groceries as an apology. I’d just finished putting the beans away and you crowded me against the counter and kissed me.”

“And after the kiss?”

“We both stumbled around each other for a week like idiots, nearly died on a case the following weekend, and came home and shagged each other’s brains out.”

“Not even a date first?”

“If by a date you mean when a couple who like each other go out and have fun, then yes, we went on them. Loads, in fact,” Sherlock grins, “We’re on a date right now.”

“I s’pose we are,” John agrees, watching as snow collects on the dark fabric of Sherlock’s coat.

“We married the same day a year later. We were already at the register office with Lestrade on a case and you joked about going ahead and getting it over with and—” Sherlock squeezes his left hand around John’s right, where both of them can feel the pressure of the ring he wears.

\-----

 

“We’re going to grow old together, aren’t we?”  
“Yes, John, we will.”

\-----

 

_Needs weekly reminder about the reason he’s taking medication and why he’s not allowed to leave the house by himself. Neighbor found him in their drive this morning, sitting and reading the paper. (Must install higher locks on the front door)._

\-----

 

Heavy footsteps thump down the stairs and onto the landing. Sherlock doesn’t bother looking up from his inspection of his new hive frames.

“I’ve had it up to here with this nonsense,” John says, hands down at his sides and his left working itself in and out of a clench. “We’ve been here for an entire week. I have a job, you know.” Sherlock hums a non-committal noise. John pushes a sigh through his nose. “I don’t know why I bother. It’s not like you’re actually listening – probably off in that bloody mind palace of yours.”

“I heard you,” Sherlock interrupts, finally looking up from the frames to John, “I always hear you.”

“But you’re not _listening_.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose at the remark. “No, don’t give me that face, you know what I mean,” John bites at him, “You still haven’t explained why we’re in this damned cottage whittling the day away, when I could be back in London working my shifts to make sure the water doesn’t get shut off again.” John watches as Sherlock leans back from the frame and flicks his eyes across John’s body.

“It’s for a case,” Sherlock says eventually, “we’re here to lure in a serial killer that’s been targeting the Sussex area for the past few months.” John’s eyes narrow and his lips purse out, but his hands unclench and he relaxes his stance.

“All right. Well… all right,” John clears his throat, “but we’ll be back at Baker Street by the end of the week.”

“Of course, John.”

\-----

 

“You’re old,” John says. Sherlock looks at him from across the patio table.

“I am. You are too.” John squints at the sun nearing its descent on the horizon.

“Right. Yes,” is all he says in return.

\-----

 

_A man’s voice croons out into the sitting room, the distinct sound of a mandolin flowing underneath the lyrics. The noise pulls Sherlock from his scrutiny of the innards of a cardboard box._

_“What on earth is this?”  
“The Baroque period was putting me to sleep,” John replies from the other side of the room where he’s surrounded by stacks of books. Within his reach is the stereo, which is no longer playing the Handel compositions Sherlock enjoys, but a soft blues rock tune. _

_“This is going to lead to a self-inflicted lobotomy soon.”_

_John laughs from behind his castle of books, rolls his shoulders and lifts his palms to the ceiling, groaning when something audibly pops in his back. Sherlock watches from where he’s sprawled on the floor as John stands, teetering on the way up, and makes his way over to him._

_“C’mon,” John says, hand stuck out, “get up here and stretch out those long limbs of yours.”_

_“I’m fine.”  
“On the hardwood that’s crushing your ribs, right.” Sherlock huffs and continues to dig through the box. “We can afford to take a break. We’ve got the rest of our lives to fill this house with even more shit than we did at Baker Street.”_

_“That sounds like a challenge,” Sherlock says, grinning as he maneuvers himself to stand beside John. They take a moment to look about the sitting room that, despite all of the boxes and mismatched furniture, still feels bare in the way that new homes do. “It’ll take weeks for me to sift through the debris of Baker Street.” He lifts a hand to squeeze John’s good shoulder. John, in turn, slides an arm around his waist and holds out his hand as an invitation._

_“Dance with me.” Sherlock pouts, but takes the offered hand._

_“I’d be more agreeable if you turned off this power ballad.”_

_“Shut up,” John says without a trace of animosity and feels the bloom of Sherlock’s smile against his temple. He’s danced with John just like this – with John’s grey hair tickling his chin, the both of them swaying, not even proper dancing, and the stereo turned up too loud – hundreds of times._

_The music starts to fade and he knows that they’ll keep dancing, but it’s at that instance of silence where the song ends and the next hasn’t begun that_ _he_ blinks awake to see the sitting room as it exists now.

It’s the quiet that’s woken him, he decides, as he strains to determine what absence of noise has alerted him through the thin veil of sleep. There it is; the telly’s off. Not that the telly being off is a cause for alarm, but it’s early afternoon, therefore John should be inside watching some inane program. Sherlock struggles into a seated position on the sofa, his view of the world around him blurry with sleep.

“John.” The pipes in the kitchen answer with a loud clank. Sherlock reaches for the armrest and vaults himself into a standing position, wobbling slightly from the sudden weight on his knees. “John?” A quick sweep of the sitting room and entryway tell him that John hasn’t been in this part of the house for some time; there’s no recent cup of tea on any of the flat surfaces and the lock on the front door is still engaged. He moves to the stairs and calls his name again, but receives not a peep in return.

And then, so obvious it pains him for passing over them earlier, the curtains covering the patio door leap out at him, pushed to the side as they are. He steps outside and squints in the unseasonably bright sunlight at the surrounding area, bleak and unkempt with the early spring weather. When his gaze passes over the pile of discarded fencing and beekeeping materials in the corner, something niggles in his brain and he picks at the feeling like a scab.

The apple bucket is gone.

He’s moving forward without another thought, sticking to the stone path and then stepping off of it and onto the dead grass that leads to the apple tree. Underneath the tree’s shade, John sits on the upturned bucket. He’s looking up into the bare branches, his eyes fogged in a way that tells Sherlock he’s not really here.

As soon as the tears start spilling, Sherlock moves forward to pull John into the safety of his arms.

“The apples – I thought,” John stammers through the wet hiccups plaguing him, “there should be apples.” Sherlock presses his face where neck and shoulder meet.

“It’s not time yet for the apples,” Sherlock whispers, “We’ve just a little longer to go, love. It’s not time yet.”

\-----

 

Steam clouds the surface of the bathroom mirror. Sherlock shifts on the mat below him, his knees protesting at the sharp weight. Water sloshes over the side of the tub.

“Sorry.”

“’s fine,” Sherlock murmurs. He hands the shampoo bottle over and cards his fingers through John’s thinning hair, massaging lightly at the scalp. John hums under his breath and grins.

“Feels good.” John shifts closer, upsetting the water in the tub again.

“Tilt your head back and close your eyes,” Sherlock orders in a soft tone, pouring a cup of warm water over the soapy strands, keeping a hand above John’s eyes to dispel any soapy water.

“Hard to find English nurses around here, you know. Mostly American,” John comments as he hands over a flannel, watching Sherlock dunk it into the water and prepare it with soap. “And not that many male nurses, if you can believe it.”

“Raise your left arm up,” Sherlock says.

“It’s a shame, though.” John grins as he shifts to allow Sherlock to clean.

“What is?”

“I won’t get to spend much time with you. I’m being invalided out.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Lean your leg out so I can reach your genitals.”

“Yeah, going back to London. That’s where home is, I suppose.”

“I’m from London, as well.” Sherlock helps him to a standing position and runs the showerhead for a moment to give John a thorough rinse. John looks up at him from below the spray with the same flirty grin.

“Well, maybe we’ll meet up then, huh?”

“Yes, maybe we will.”

\-----

 

His body aches like it never has before. The sharp bites of pain in his knees as he ascends the stairs or trudges up the hill to the apiary make him restrict his movement. Flopping onto the sofa is no longer possible, due to his bones jostling and popping when he does so. There’s also the funny little tingling that runs up his legs in the evening, and the shortness of breath that comes and goes.

He watches John’s chest rise, stutter, and fall across the bed. His stomach coils at the thought of what will become of his husband if he dies before John. It’s a fear that drives him to schedule doctor appointments and follow through with them.

A blue pill box joins John’s white box on the kitchen counter, filled with an array of medications that must be taken with a glass of water or a hearty meal. Rather annoying inconveniences, because neither of which he has much time for when John is awake and not suctioned to his armchair.

It’s difficult, but he does it.

\-----

 

Sherlock spends an entire morning setting up the tree, stringing it with lights, and rummaging through their tiny box of ornaments to hang the glass baubles and snowflakes. John spends an entire evening plugging and unplugging the cord because he likes the way the lights flicker when he does so.

Sherlock asks John to stop, tells John to stop, demands John to stop, until he’s pulling back each frail finger to pry the cord out of John’s hands. An inhuman cry sounds from the floor and there are hands are on Sherlock’s torso, shoving at him; the world lurches as he falls backwards.

The tree crashes to the ground and Sherlock follows it to the floor, pine needles pricking at his neck, arms, back – everywhere. The ceiling above him resembles a broken kaleidoscope. The multi-colored lights bounce off of the ornaments and the scent of pine makes him dizzy. Glass cracks and tinkles underneath his shoulder – an ornament that’s broken during the fall.

Sherlock rolls off of the tree and lands belly-down on the floor. Tucked away in the corner, John whimpers into the sleeves of his dressing gown.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean, I – I’m sorry,” John repeats, muffled by the fabric and drowned out by the hollow thumps of his head meeting the wall. He lets out a terrible noise from his chest, a heaving, wracking sound that catches on the end of his jumbled apology. Sherlock crawls to him and folds him up into his arms.

“It’s all right, now,” Sherlock says, his voice low and even. He reaches out and curls a hand around John’s head, brings it to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “It’s all right.”

 

The next morning, Sherlock drags the tree out back to the compost pile, returns the lights to their containers, and boxes up all of the ornaments.

John says nothing of it.

\-----

 

“You discussed changing his medication at the last checkup.”

“At this stage in the disease, there’s very little that a different medication would do for him, in terms of helping to ease the symptoms,” the doctor continues, “if you find yourself having difficulty with him–”

“No.” They share a glance towards John, who is flipping through a women’s fashion magazine, brows knit together. “It’s fine, at home.” Sherlock thinks of John in his armchair, the glow of the television painting his face a pale blue; it could all be the same as before, in fact, save for the unsettling glaze over John’s eyes. The urge to walk over, to take John by the shoulders and shake him, to open up his traitorous brain until he can fix the faulty synapses and watch them fire up, watch the John from before return is a common feeling.

The appointment ends and Sherlock bundles John into his coat. The doctor turns to John and spends several long seconds shaking his hand.

It is the last appointment.

\-----

 

“We’re coming to the end, aren’t we?”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

\-----

 

“And we’re…?”

“Best friends. Husbands. Idiots. There’s a whole range of names for us.”

“Oh. All right, then. That – those sound nice.”

\-----

Sherlock pulls the plug and sprays the last of the dinner scraps down into the disposal. His eyes are heavy from a day out in the cold. With the kitchen appearing tidy, he pulls his dressing gown tight around his chest and wanders into the sitting room.

The television plays some inane advert for a reality program – really, isn’t it obvious that several of the contestants are planted there by the channel’s company? He turns the television off. The sitting room is lit only by the moon peeking in from the front window.

“Let’s go to bed.”

There’s no response. Sherlock rounds the sofa to take in John’s sleeping form, head nestled into the thick cushion and jaw slacked. He tucks a blanket around John and presses a kiss to his forehead.

The bed is cold when Sherlock slides in, shivers escaping him until the cocoon of sheets warms to his body heat. Shortly after, he drops off into sleep.

\-----

 

His feet are cold where they curl over each other on the floor. The steady beat of rain falls on the roof, soaking the patio and the hives at the edge of the yard. The wooden wind chime clunks against the side of the house. Far away, tires crunch over the gravel drive. The thump of booted feet sounds on the front steps and there’s not even a hint of hesitation this time – that’s new, it took her well over a minute last time to decide – and then there’s the solid ceramic thunk of a potted plant being deposited. A door shuts, followed by the rusty, choking sound of a parking brake being released, and the gravel crunches once more.

If he held a single shred of care for humanity, he would open the door next time to let the florist know that she need not return without all of the arrangements until the end of the day. The temptation, however, to open the door next time and break the damned pot over the woman’s head and end this entire wretched affair is paramount.

There’s a raw discomfort in his chest that pulses brightly when he hears each bouquet drop onto the porch. It looks like a garden grew out of the wooden planks; blue hydrangeas tucked in next to several pots of calla lilies, a bucket of striped carnations sharing the first step with a tiger fern, whose fronds cover a bouquet of salmon-colored gladioli.

Sherlock hates the flowers; pretty, pointless things that they are. There’s no dead body to mask the stench of, and in a few days when John comes home, he’ll just be bits of charred bones in a container.

He’s thought about leaving the flowers on the front porch to wither away and ward off the desperate reporters, a sign to anyone hoping to bother him for chance at a column above the fold. The weather is far too cold to plant them and hope for survival, so he’s going to be stuck with tending to them indoors until spring arrives.

He finishes scowling into his tea and looks across the table to John’s notebook, reaches for it, and pulls it to him.

The first of the pages are bulleted lists with times of the day scribbled in the margins. The lists gradually become small paragraphs that grow into pages of prose about the faulty downstairs bath’s plumbing and the wish to plant a willow across the yard from the hives, where John writes that he is sure groundwater collects. The thin block letters slowly morph into long loopy stretches and paragraphs that revert back to single-line sentences that end abruptly, until Sherlock turns to a page of his own writing. He keeps flipping until he reaches the first empty page, clean but for yesterday’s date at the top margin.

Sherlock rips the page from the notebook, where another blank page taunts him. He curls his fingers around it and several more and tears them from their binding, repeating the process again, again, again until there are no more.

 

He calls Molly late at night after an evening spent on his side of the bed, staring out into the darkness beyond the open bedroom door. Her voice is rough with sleep, stumbling over a questioning hello in his ear. He opens his mouth to tell her, to tell the only person he wanted to call, but instead his voice crackles and he sucks in a breath to try again. Molly beats him to it.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Yesterday. It – it happened yesterday morning.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“He fell asleep in his chair and I didn’t want to wake him and make him move to the bedroom, so I let him sleep there like he’s done a thousand times and when I woke up–” The hand wrapped around the mobile trembles.

“Do you know how, yet?”

“No, not yet. The coroner is supposed to call tomorrow after the autopsy’s finished.”

Yesterday was Saturday, the day John had long ago dedicated to the general upkeep of the cottage. The tradition carried on with Sherlock, more so to have some form of structure to John’s weeks, whether time passed for John or not, than the need for a clean house. On his way through the kitchen, Sherlock started off by setting out a pair of clean mugs for morning tea.

He strolled into the sitting room and over to John’s chair, reached out to wake him, and felt the heavy weight of his hand when it touched John’s shoulder. He knew in an instant. All of the signs registered as easily as breathing: the ashen hue of the face and neck, the stiffness of the deltoid muscle, the uncharacteristic chill of the skin.

For a moment, nothing.

Then he pressed his nose onto the crown of John’s head and breathed in the scent of dried sweat and spicy tea leaves. The fleeting essence of his best friend and partner. A blast of wind rattled the shutters and the fridge hummed and the neighbor’s dog barked a short yap, then another, and outside the window, the shimmering mirage of a tremendous rain obscured the brief glimpse of the sea, and John. And John, he….

Sherlock’s knees protested in the cold morning air as he dropped to a crouch. He moved the blanket aside to gather up John’s hands, to pull them to his lips and drop his head onto John’s thigh.

His fingers traced the wrinkled lines of John’s hands – warped with scars and age spots, experience and time – felt the cracked edges of his palm and the soft skin of his wrist. He linked his fingers through John’s and raised their hands to press a kiss to the center, in between the lines of the palm. He would never have this moment again, to sit with John in the privacy of their home and listen to the rain coming off the coast, hold tightly onto the weary bones and sinewy strands of muscles that held John together, allowed him to be touched and kissed and loved. 

The rain stopped just as the coroner pulled out of the drive. Sherlock stood in the doorway, the cold bite of winter filling the house, and watched the white lorry crest over the last hill and disappear from view. Eventually, Sherlock abandoned his post, hands hanging limp at his sides. “Tea, then.” He wrestled the words out of his throat, returning the second mug to the cupboard while he waited for the water to boil.

With a fresh mug in hand, he moved to the sliding patio doors and leaned his forehead against the chilled glass. The cleaning list he had in his mind before discovering John floated to the surface. There was the kitchen floor to be mopped, the laundry to be finished, and the bathroom to be scrubbed.  
He opened his eyes to see the bare limbs of the apple tree shaking under the weight of the harsh wind. He thought about how, come next spring, there would be soft pink blossoms that, by autumn, would become hearty bushels. He thought about how John wouldn’t be there to see it.

By the time the first tear slipped off the edge of his nose, the second wasn’t far behind.

“It’s a peaceful way to go, in your sleep,” Molly says, her voice so very soft in his ear. Sherlock clutches at the mobile and hears the plastic creak under the pressure.

He pushes the air from his lungs and speaks, “I want more time. Despite everything, I want more years with him. It would’ve been cruel, I know, to keep him here while his brain tore itself to bits but I’ve always been selfish. I want to go downstairs and find him sitting in that damn armchair and have him tell me to hush because his show’s on and I need him to tell me that he’s all right and if he was cold when I left him down there alone, because after all of these years with him he’s always let me know and now he’s dead and he can’t tell me.” His voice cracks and he hates this, how weak he’s being, but the hour is wearing on him and there’s nobody left to tell these things to anymore.

“He knew he was safe and at home,” Molly says.

“He has late stage Alzheimer’s. He forgets to eat on his own, he doesn’t recognize the house sometimes and, on the bad days, he has trouble remembering who I am.”

“He knew. Of course he knew.”

“The dementia would disagree.”

“Then dementia can go fuck off,” She interrupts, “If you don’t think John loved you up until his last breath, despite everything, then you’ve gone stupid with old age. He loved you so much it was sort of ridiculous. The both of you, too ridiculous for your own good.”

There’s a small measure of silence and Sherlock tries to remember how to properly draw in breaths. “I’ll be on the first train down in the morning, if you’re all right with that.”

“Thank you.”

\-----

 

Molly arrives promptly at noon the next day, ruffling her short grey hair to rid it of the rain. Sherlock ushers her in and allows himself to be wrapped into a hug. After disentangling himself, he leads her to the kitchen and clicks the kettle on.

He watches her as she removes her coat and scarf, as she moves to the table and leans over it to inspect the photographs littering the surface.

“Have you picked out any yet?” She asks, glancing up at him for a moment before turning back to the photographs.

“No. They’re for John. Why would I have–”

“Oh, well, because,” She cuts herself off with a squeak, “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you had them out for the funeral.” The realization pours into him, an abrupt pulsing sensation that travels through his chest cavity.

“Funeral. Yes.” He turns to switch the kettle off.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t mean–”

“Quite all right.” He flashes a smile at her over his shoulder, but his lips feel thin and wobbly, so he doubts it looks convincing. Light feet pad across the floor and he spins on his heel to thrust a cup at Molly’s approaching form. She falters, eyes searching his face before she accepts the tea, cradling the cup between both hands.

“He bought you an anniversary card,” Sherlock says, apropos of nothing. Molly drags her gaze away from the old crow in the backyard to him. “Years after Charlie had passed, obviously. There were other instances, but that’s when I knew how bad it’d gotten.” She’s quick to wrap a frail hand around his. “I snuck out to the mailbox that night and binned it.” She squeezes tighter for a beat and then drops her hand. They drink in relative silence, their wedding bands clinking an irregular beat against the porcelain.

She shuffles to the table to set her cup down and begins moving photographs around. “I like this photo,” He says, his finger catching the corner of it and pulling it towards him.

“Good.” She settles herself into a chair and places the photograph in the clean spot she’s made in the middle of the table. “What about this photo here?” She holds it in front of him, the image shaking slightly from the tremor in her hand, a lingering effect of her recent stroke. His eyes light up as he takes the photo out of her grasp.

“Yes, I like that too.”

\-----

The funeral is small, which is to be expected, what with most of John’s friends already dead. The cruelty of age and all that. Former Yarders, clinic staff, and a handful of army buddies fill the short rows. Sherlock recognizes several people that came to their wedding. Molly keeps a steady grip on his arm. Mycroft watches Sherlock with a weighted gaze. Lestrade spends too long with his hand clapped onto Sherlock’s shoulder. Everyone tells him how John is in a better place now, as if they all received the same script with the same lines highlighted.

After the funeral is over, the director hands him a little maroon-colored bag that contains John’s urn. Sherlock takes it out to the car and sets it in the passenger seat.

He clicks the radio off and spends the five minute drive home in relative silence, with only the tinkling sound of the keys swinging in the ignition and the winter wind beating against the car to keep him company. He pulls into the drive and, for the first time he can recall, comes home alone to an empty house.

\-----

He fills the other side of the mattress with dirty laundry for a night. The next night he tries piling up extra blankets and pillows and finds that the comfort of having something soft to hold onto helps. Grief websites mention support groups or animals as a way of easing the loss of a spouse.

At the kitchen table with his breakfast, he browses the local RSPCA website. His gaze keeps traveling to where the lone white box of pills sits on the counter. He closes out the tab.

\-----

He takes the book out back.

Ambling down the garden path, he stops periodically to inspect the flowers and watch the bees take advantage of the latest patch of bluebells. The chair is where he left it, sitting underneath the apple tree’s shade, where he rested after planting the weeping willow. He settles himself, content in resting for a time. A damp spring breeze washes over him, bringing with it the soft white petals of the apple blossoms.

The willow is a young sapling, only a meter taller than himself, but in a few years it will surpass all of the other trees. The trunk will grow thick and the leaves will sweep at the grass; the area underneath them will sustain a cool shade from the weather year-round. He can imagine it now, can see how the tree will grow without him there to see to it.

He’s written instructions for Mycroft, because the old prat will live forever, that when he passes his ashes are to be buried underneath the willow with John’s remains. He likes the idea of that, the pair of them inseparable even after death. John would’ve called it romantic.

He returns his attention back to the book in his lap. It’s the last of John’s series and, unlike the previous novels stuffed onto the bookshelf, completely devoid of cup rings and scribbled text in the margins from the both of them fighting over details. He realizes now that this is the first time he’s held it in his hands for the actual purpose of reading, and not for an acid experiment or to put away for dust to collect on the binding.

He opens the book and finds John’s rambling foreword about this being the last novel, the closing of doors, and other pointless analogies; he flips to the next and smiles. Centered on the page is John’s first and only dedication.

 _For Sherlock._  
_You are the very best possible thing._  
_Thank you for these, our ridiculous adventures._

He turns the page and begins to read.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was partially written with my late mother in mind, a woman with a talent for growing flowers in ridiculous places around the house.  
> Thanks for taking the time to read.


End file.
